


Join Me

by Silvestria



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, merry war, not naked swimming, wallowing in mud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a Friday in the middle of May at Downton Abbey and the hottest day of the year so far. Charles Blake is expected after dinner and Mary is stifling from anticipation and heat. What's a girl to do but wander down to the lake? Inspired by <a href="http://onecosmiclove.tumblr.com/post/86103767119/join-me">this graphic</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Join Me

It is a glorious English summer's day. There has not been one like it so far this year and it heralds further delights as the season develops. Never has it been such a joy to be in the countryside. The grass seems a particularly vivid green under the gentle sun, the trees are heavy with foliage and candles of white and dusky pink glow on the horse chestnuts. The sky is a pure blue, not a cloud in sight. The flowers hum with bees and shiver with pollen, their fragrance pouring off them in waves, still clean and fresh, without the sickliness that fills the air later in summer.

It is a Friday in the middle of May at Downton Abbey.

Charles Blake is due to arrive after dinner to stay for the weekend and Mary is suffocating indoors from anticipation. He has never come before without an excuse. For several months there had been the Whitby farmers but Rose had mischievously exposed _that_ ploy over dinner one day, not that anyone had been surprised to find it a fabrication. Then there had been the day he came to help interview the new pig man and had stayed a week. And the time his car had broken down ten miles away – that really had been an accident, but it had nevertheless taken three days before he and Tom had bothered to discover that it could have been fixed in half an hour.

There have been other trips, of course, and she has been in London several times as well but this time – this is different. There has been no pretence, however flimsy, for his journey north. Just a simple postcard that arrived on Thursday morning.

_I want to see you. Expect me after dinner on Friday? CB._

The postcard was a nice touch when he could have rung and she ran her fingers over the strong, vigorous slant of his writing, considering what it meant. This did not fit his usual style. What kind of battle was this? Where was the strategy in such a message? If he meant to unnerve her then he has succeeded but otherwise...

She 'phoned him back to confirm, a conversation tense with unspoken questions and lack of explanation. The easiness that has developed between them over the months seemed gone in a stroke of his pen and now she wonders if that was his intention all along.

The French windows are open and a bluebottle flies in; it buzzes round Lady Grantham's head. She swats it away with one hand, not looking up from her book and it circles the room until it finds Mary. It runs rings round her hair and she tosses her head at it restlessly, batting it away. The fly has more energy than any of them in the house and she sighs at the thought, leaning back against the sofa.

Mama is reading. She is wearing a full blouse and skirt and  _must_ be hot but she does not show it. Outside, Rose is lying on a rug on the grass. Mary can see her through the windows, a streak of fluttery pink crepe that has crept shockingly above her knees. Not that people mind about that sort of thing these days.

Mary is all in white, the coolest, lightest white in her wardrobe, but it still feels stifling. Her fingers that pluck at the linen folds of her skirt are slippery with sweat and she can feel beads of it gathering on the nape of her neck under the roll of her hair.

The countess turns a page and the sound cracks into the heavy stillness. Mary stands up suddenly and her mother looks up, raising her eyebrows.

For a moment, her voice is stuck in her throat, then she gestures uselessly away with one hand. “I'm going for a walk.”

Lady Grantham nods, satisfied, and Mary leaves, not feeling at all satisfied herself.

Outside, the terrace is radiating heat from the house and she misses the comparative coolness of the drawing room. Rose looks up from the grass over the top of the magazine.

“Hello, Mary! Where are you going?”

She shrugs. “Just a walk. Aren't you hot in the sun?”

Rose writhes on the grass, digging her bare toes into the earth. “Oh yes, wonderfully! Why don't you go to the lake? It'll be cooler there if you're hot. You  _look_ hot, Mary.”

“Perhaps. Yes, I think I shall. Do you want to come with me?”

Her cousin laughs, a lazy laugh full of the heat of youth and indolence. “That would mean moving and I'm  _so_ comfortable here!”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Have it your own way but don't come running to me when you get sunstroke and faint into the soup.”

“Oh no, _I_ shan't be running to you on any account tonight!”

Mary looks at her suspiciously, but she has raised her magazine high and she can no longer see Rose's expression. She can, however, imagine it perfectly.

Away from the house it is cooler, but not much. She finds cover quickly and pursues the lake through an avenue of trees. They are so thick with leaves now, their branches meet and entwine over her head and it is like walking down the aisle of a rustling, luminous, green cathedral. In the distance she can see the lake through the shrubbery, a glint of weedy green which changes to blue and silver as it catches the sun. It draws her on, a great, gleaming pagan alter of coolness.

The avenue leads to the little jetty where they keep the rowing boat once the weather gets warmer. Nobody has taken it out yet this summer and as she steps out onto the uneven wooden planks, she can see a thin layer of water and slimy weeds in the bottom. It is like a little pier, this jetty, extending out of the reeds and mud at the water's edge and into the lake till there is water on three sides of her.

She takes a deep breath and flexes her hands at her side, hoping for some relief. Away from the trees, however, she is out in the sun again and she can feel it burn through her thin dress. She flexes her shoulders against the prickle of warmth on her back and wishes there was more wind. A light breeze swirls some air that had been refreshed with contact with the water round her ankles and lifts her skirt slightly. It is something – but not enough.

A splash and Mary stiffens, her eyes darting in the direction of the sound to watch the heron take off, but there is no sign of any bird. There are only ripples, expanding across the lake from an unseen inlet to her left. She steps further out onto the jetty to see if she can find their origin and goes right to the end and leans out over the lake. She gasps and freezes altogether.

There is a man in the shallows; a man in nothing but his trousers! His back is to her as he bends down to cup water in his hands before straightening and flinging it over his back, tipping his head back in pleasure. She can see the muscles of his back bunch and release as he moves, and glisten as the water trickles in rivulets down to his waist where they are absorbed by the black of his trousers.

He bends again for more water and this time splashes it over his head. She should not be looking but her feet are rooted to the spot – and he should not be here! She can see the thickness of his raised arms now and admires the way his back flexes as he runs his hands through his thick, black hair, now sparkling with moisture. Her own hair is heavy and hot, almost burning from standing in the sun, and she is getting hotter.

The man moves forward into the lake, with a kind of running jump and much energetic splashing. Good God, is he actually going to swim? She can barely breathe. Then he turns, raising one hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and looks directly at her. A wave of light-headedness washes over her and her lips part in horror and for a moment she is afraid that it will be her fainting this afternoon, not Rose. They stare at each other across the expanse of water, heart-beats stopped, and it is as if the rest of the world has fallen silent and still in sympathy.

Then she stumbles along the jetty and out of sight again, back into the shade. Breathing heavily, she leans against a tree and clutches her side, her head swimming for lack of oxygen, for her chest has closed up and drawing breaths is painful. Her eyes close for a moment and when she opens them again, sunspots dancing away between the trees and across the water, she wonders if she has seen a mirage.

But Mary is not accustomed to flights of fancy and knows she has not, if only because nothing makes more sense than stripping off and splashing into the lake on a day such as this if only one has the courage. She pushes herself off from the tree and begins to walk around the lake with increasing urgency and excitement.

He has chosen an inlet where there are fewer reeds and a gentle, earthy, muddy slope into the water that could almost pass for a beach. Perhaps in the time that she has taken walking round, he has actually been swimming – he certainly looks wet enough – for he is now emerging from the water, and grabbing a towel that he has left on the bank to rub his hair. Her eyes follow the direction of his body as he picks it up and he watches her watching him.

It is Charles Blake, of course, but she knew that from the first moment she saw him.

He rubs his hair thoroughly until it sticks up in all directions and neither speak. He is more tanned than she had expected him to be and she wonders with a inner bubble of nearly hysterical laughter whether he makes a habit of going without his shirt.

It seems somehow futile to dry his hair alone when the rest of him is dripping. She tells him so. She suspects it is because he knows she is enjoying the performance. This she does not say.

He grins and flings the towel away. “Join me?”

Mary's eyebrows fly up into her hairline. “Don't tempt me!”

“Now there's an invitation to temptation if ever there was one. You must be dying for a bathe. Water's wonderful.”

As he speaks, he flicks drops of water at her. They landed on the white of her skirt, darkening it. She does not even look down.

“I shall have a civilised bath this evening. And I shall – do you normally bathe in your trousers?”

Now it is his turn to raise his eyebrows. “No, do you?”

“Good God, Charles!” She swallows. “Why make the exception today? It looks very uncomfortable.”

“I'm glad you noticed. Haven't you ever read Forster, Mary?”

“Forster? I – yes!”

“Then you'll know the dangers of bathing naked in your friends' pond.”

“I believe you were hoping you'd be interrupted.”

They have not moved an inch but now he takes a squelching step forwards out of the water and into the mud. She looks down at his feet, bigger and more solid than she might have imagined if she had ever thought in particular about his bare feet. Dark, wet hair curls around his ankles where he has rolled up the bottom of his trousers a few inches. Her eyes dart back up a second later.

“I won't deny I was hoping for a companion and, you see, I have not been disappointed.”

She smiles wryly at his audacity. “I'm afraid you will be disappointed if you think I am going to come any closer though.”

“But bathing alone is so much less satisfying than doing it with someone else.”

“I wouldn't know,” she says stiffly, feeling her cheeks warm. “We were never allowed to swim here.”

He turns with another squelch and glances over the lake in surprise. “Really? Then this was virgin water until half an hour ago?” His eyes dance and probe hers as if daring her to question his choice of words.

“Not exactly. Papa said he used to bathe here as a boy but girls, you know...”

“Most improper, quite. The governess is not amused and has threatened to resign in protest. Fetch the smelling salts!”

“You're laughing at me, Charles!” she cries severely, smiling.

“Would I dare?”

“I think you would dare most things if given even the slightest encouragement.”

He likes this answer. “Is that a challenge?”

Mary raises one shoulder and lowers it, her mouth turning up at the corners, holding back. This is more like their merry war and things seem to be settling back into their proper order.

Not for long. She has just become accustomed to the sight of his naked chest and to be aware of feeling happy to see him, when the ground is pulled from under her feet – for he has reached her in two strides, swept her into his arms, and in one fluid movement dumped her into the lake.

She lands with a splash on her backside in the soft mud, the water not even coming as far up as her knees. The water is not cold for it has had the sun on it all day but the mud is refreshing and she can feel it seep through her dress and underclothes and cannot even regret it much. Her arms, neck and face are splattered and she can feel every spot where the cool water has touched hot skin. She is breathing hard.

He stands over her, hands on his hips and a look of intolerable smugness on his face. She is not at an advantage, sprawled in the shallows, her white dress – oh! She struggles to sit up and covers her chest with one hand, the other pulling the sodden, clinging material further down over her legs. He had wanted to see her and now, she suspects, she has seen far more than had been intended by either of them. Or...

Slowly she removes her hands and leans back on them, her eyes travelling up his body to his face. The mud moulds itself round her fingers as they sink deeper and deeper as they search for firmer ground. He put her here but she will not be ashamed. She will not be the first to end this.

“We seem to be making a habit of this,” she comments, holding his gaze.

His mouth twists up. “I can't regret it, Mary.”

She shifts her weight and releases one hand from the mud, then the other, replacing them in a new position. She kicks forward with her legs, splashing him, and makes a scrambling effort to rise. “That's all very well, but how am I to explain another ruined dress?”

“If I take full responsibility, will that help?” he suggests, stepping closer to her and holding out a hand to her because he is, after all, a gentleman and she is struggling.

“Full responsibility for ruining my dress? Are you sure that is wise?”

She ignores the hand and hooks her foot round his leg now that he has obligingly come close enough to do so. She draws her leg in and with a shout of surprise he topples into the water opposite her. Sitting up properly, she covers her mouth with a muddy hand but she cannot hold back the satisfied laugh at the sight of him sprawled before her.

He blinks and shakes his head, droplets flying from his hair as from the coat of a shaggy dog. “Mary!” he exclaims, his voice rich with delight and disbelief.

She continues to laugh though more gently now and lazily flicks water at him.

“I thought I'd be ready for anything but that- I can't say I expected that!”

“I don't know why; it was really very obvious.”

“You were planning it!” he accuses her with a big smile.

She tilts her head. “What do you think?”

She laughs again and he joins her and the sound of it mingles with the gentle splosh of the water, the rustle of the leaves in a light breeze that has crept upon them as the shadows lengthen, and the clacking of a bird in the reeds.

Eventually as their mirth lessens, he flops back into the water where it becomes deeper and stretches his arms out, floating.

“I think,” he says in a tone of complete contentment, staring up at the trees that overhang the shore, “that you and I could be the very best of friends.”

Mary blinks. She can count the number of friends she has ever had on one hand and this is not what she was expecting him to say. “Do you?” she manages to say.

He is drifting in her direction. Soon he will be floating alongside him. His eyes flicker up to her. “Without any doubt. Don't you?” he adds with a touch of surprise as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

“I can't say I've ever thought about it.” She is mesmerised by the rise and fall of his chest and the way the water follows a set trail across the planes of his skin trailing down to where his stomach is interrupted by his sodden trousers. She jerks her eyes upwards but he has not missed a thing.

“I can think of little else,” he says and there is an unexpected gravity in his tone that arrests her and suddenly she feels vulnerable and even cold in her damp clothes. The sun has gone behind a cloud.

“There is-” he says suddenly and his hand darts out of the water to hover close to her face. He inspects her attentively for a moment, leaning very close to her, so close she can barely breathe as she feels the heat radiating from him that contrasts deliciously with the increasing cool of the water. Breaths mingle for one charged moment as his fingers swipe gently at her hair and then fling outwards. “Pond weed in your hair.”

His eyes are somehow laughing yet tender as he moves back to a suitable distance again and she suspects that there was nothing there at all. Missing his closeness, she shivers involuntarily.

He narrows his eyes. “But you're cold and the sun's gone in. If I stand up and offer you my hand again, I suppose that would be a mistake?”

“Only if you are unable to deal with disappointment.”

So saying, she makes a great effort and scrambles to her feet with much splashing and not helped by the heavy weight of her sodden dress twining round her legs. Now she is standing above him as he lies spread out before her, expression open and admiring – of her independence and of the contours of her body, completely visible to him.

She holds out her hand to him, expression giving nothing away save a twitch of her eyebrows. His countenance moves rapidly however as he takes her in.

“Well, I'm not so proud...”

He grasps her hand in a warm, strong clasp and for a moment she thinks he will pull her back into the water with him and she braces her feet in the mud but this is one trick he holds back from. Instead, she really has to pull him up and they both stumble and laugh and do not let go as he rises out of the mud.

They are both filthy from head to toe and the soft ground under their feet is unstable and shifting, their tightly clutched hands the firmest point of contact. He is so close to her that when they both inhale his bare chest brushes hers. Mary feels cold and hot together, flushed and damp, excited and steady.

“Mary...” he exhales. His heart-beat is elevated and he sounds breathless.

“Why did you want to see me?” she interrupts, her eyes flashing across the features of his face and lingering on a bead of water just above his upper lip. “In your postcard, you said-”

“I just wanted to see you. I always want to see you, you know that.”

“Hmm.” His answer is disappointing. “I thought, perhaps, you had something you specially wanted to say to me.”

Charles tightens his grip on her hand. “There are so many things I specially want to say to you that once I start I am not sure I will ever be quiet again.”

“Actions speak louder than words, you know.”

And to show that she had courage too, she reaches out and brushes his chest above his heart. His skin is sleek and smooth and she can feel the heat of his body under the cool veneer of the water that still clings to his body. He draws in a sharp breath and his throat moves wordlessly.

Mary is thirsty; thirsty from the heat, thirsty from the exercise and thirsty from the lack of him. They are standing eye to eye so all she needs to do is lean forward in order to press her lips against his in a blinding kiss, all the more intense for its brevity. She has taken him by surprise, again, and she is pleased for she has an idea that he has planned this weekend to go a particular way and she is not going to sit still like a good girl in the waiting room and play by his rules. Not any longer.

He cups her elbow to draw her in and leans forward to take charge of the kiss but she pulls back and steps round him, keeping hold of his hand for as long as possible until her fingers slip from his. She picks up his towel and wraps it round her shoulders as if it were the finest possible shawl. The air temperature is no longer as hot as it had been and being in the water has cooled her down but she is still burning up with a consuming inner heat. Drawing past him again she meets his eyes, large and black and intense.

“How you are making me fight!” he cries, his voice hoarse and barely restrained.

She smiles. “On the contrary, I am handing you an easy victory!”

She walks past him, pushing through her disinclination to increase the distance between them. Over her shoulder, she tosses, “If only you will seize it!” knowing full well that he will follow her.

 


End file.
